Chapter 3

Three

Kyrith

G alileo is the only one who returns before closing, settling back into his corner with a long, drawn-out sigh. For once, I don’t join him. Whatever peace I might’ve once felt in his presence has disintegrated.

He’s now in league with them .

Somehow, in the space of a few hours, my peaceful Arcanaeum has become a battlefield. Lines have been drawn, and I have no allies.

“Librarian?”

I blink at Dakari, waiting patiently by my desk. Ordinarily, he’s the last person on earth I’d ever daydream around, but being dead has made me callous when it comes to the dangerous aura he exudes. Not for the first time, I find myself comparing him to some deadly shark. It’s not just the disconcerting stillness of his black-eyed gaze that brings to mind the comparison, either. It’s in the way he moves, the graceful ease with which he cuts through a space when he walks.

The unerring focus which he’s currently levelling on me doesn’t hinder the comparison, either.

But while all of those things would send an ordinary arcanist running for the hills, they make me aware of him in a completely different—and wholly inappropriate—way. Something that seems to only get annoyingly worse every time I see him.

Thank magic I can’t act on the impulse, or I might’ve made a complete fool of myself by now. Not that staring at him like a mute little mouse is helping my case, either.

“Sorry, Mr Talcott.”

He runs a hand through his short dreadlocks and offers me a curious quirk of his brow, an offer of concern that he won’t verbalise.

I could ask him about Northcliff. Though Dakari comes from a branch of his family which emigrated to Polynesia, he travels regularly as part of his work. He might have picked up some gossip along the way.

But, like a coward, I tap my fingers noiselessly against the desk and ask instead, “What have you got for me today?”

Reaching inside his heavy woollen coat, he pulls out a worn and battered book and places it on the desk between us.

“Beautiful,” I whisper, running my spectral hands across the worn blue cover, with the flaking copper foil inlay. “ Risturi .”

Under my palms, the book begins to transform. Its warped pages straighten, the broken spine is mended, and the copper gilding glides back into place, forming a delicate lace around the title. Dakari watches without so much as a twitch, but some of the newer members cast sideways glances my way.

They’re not used to seeing me perform master-level magic without a grimoire—something which should be impossible. But I am the Arcanaeum. I have hundreds of grimoires linked to me and the magic of dozens of murdered arcanists at my fingertips.

Inside this building, I am infinitely powerful.

Yet, I cannot leave.

“It’s been a while since anyone brought me something this old.”

The Arcanaeum reaches through me, sifting through the pages. It’s like bearing witness to the excitement of a child presented with a birthday gift. The book opens, the pages twirling as the Arcanaeum’s magic bonds with it.

A few seconds later, it’s part of the collection, tied to me and the building forever. I know everything about its makeup, from the ingredients used in the ink to the height of the spruce which was felled to form the pages. Each book has a unique aura, and this one is cheerful and bright, boosting my mood just a little.

Carefully, I flick open the cover and lift a fresh checkout card from the drawer by my side and then stick it into the book using magic alone while Dakari watches. There’s no point to the cards anymore, given that the books cannot be removed, but the ones which belonged to the collection before I died still have them, and I like things to match. Dakari has never commented on the uselessness of the cards. I suspect that, like me, he enjoys the familiar ritual of it.

He’s been a collector for years, and he’s one of my best. Unlike the others, he doesn’t drop off the books, collect his money, and leave. He waits for me to finish, and occasionally, he’ll offer a few words about where his latest find came from.

“He’s a liminal.” Dakari’s voice rumbles through me. “But a strong one.”

“Who?” I ask.

He levels me with an unimpressed look. “Northcliff Ackland.”

Am I so easily read? I suppose I must be. Either that, or the gossip has travelled far already, which wouldn’t surprise me.

I imagine the Acklands are celebrating their return to greatness.

“He’s one of a number of bastards Josef’s begotten in hopes of wheedling his way back into the Arcanaeum.”

I knew the Ackland parriarch had many children, but I didn’t realise he was having them exclusively for that reason.

That level of desperation makes me uneasy.

A tug at my consciousness makes me frown, distracting me. A second later, a tiny drawer to my right pops open.

“Oh, the Arcanaeum has a request for you,” I mumble, surprised.

It’s not often that this happens. In fact, it must have been over a decade since the last one.

Dakari cocks his head to one side, confused. He’s not the only one.

What book could the Arcanaeum want that it doesn’t already have? A new publication, perhaps? Though, often it will steal those when they’re brought in by unsuspecting patrons…

Reaching into the drawer, I find a stack of money—his payment—and atop it, a small square of folded parchment.

I pull both out, slide the money towards him, and carefully smooth out the parchment.

Only to recoil the moment I read the words stamped in neat, monospaced typeface on it.

Magister Mathias Ackland’s Grimoire

There are other words too, a promise of payment, and a vague location, but I don’t pay attention to any of them.

“I will not have that book in here,” I hiss, flicking my fingers at it. “ Inflemi .”

The note catches light, fizzling into a pile of cinders.

Dakari’s expressive dark brows furrow, but he doesn’t have a chance to ask what’s happened, because the Arcanaeum isn’t done with us.

Another drawer pops open, and I don’t need to look to know that the contents are the same.

I draw it out, shoving the money his way but barely glancing at the note. “ Inflemi .”

The building has the nerve to creak in annoyance.

Then, in a petulant act of rebellion, every single drawer on my desk springs open. All of them full to the brim with more copies of the same typed note.

I’m so busy trying to shove them all closed that I don’t notice when the scarred collector reaches across the space and takes one.

“For magic’s sake! No. Don’t accept that!”

Too late. He unfolds it, and that scarred brow twitches in disbelief.

“I’m on it,” he says.

The drawers I was doing battle with all slam shut in one final crack of defiance that saps my strength. My shoulders droop, and I hug my middle as I try to process what this means.

Dakari watches me with cold, curious eyes. Even if I wanted that grimoire—which I don’t—collecting it is far too dangerous. Old books lost before the purges are one thing, but this is something else entirely.

A forgotten arcanist tome can be stolen from under an inept collector’s nose without effort.

But in most cases, upon the death of an arcanist, their grimoire is summoned automatically to the Vault. That the magister’s wasn’t means that the Acklands have employed some serious magic to prevent it being taken.

Sending someone—even someone as experienced and powerful as Dakari—into a place undoubtedly protected by necromancy and other foul magic in pursuit of a book, is wrong.

“It is too dangerous,” I whisper, voice hoarse. “And that book… That book is evil.”

He meets my gaze levelly, then starts to turn, still clutching that piece of paper.

I reach out to stop him.

I don’t know why I do it. I’ve had years to get used to being incorporeal and all the limitations it brings. Perhaps it’s instinct, or desperation, or sheer stupidity. Maybe it’s some force of Fate.

My hand passes straight through the rich chestnut skin of his biceps, but I jolt back with a gasp as tingles erupt across my palm and morph, spearing up my arm like fiery needles.

Deep below us, something cracks , and the sound echoes through the halls, alarming me into stillness.

Dakari twists around to pin me to the spot with that gorgeous dark stare of his. He takes in my wide eyes, then the spot where my hand still bisects his arm.

A fissure now runs through my translucent skin, spreading past my wrist to end at my elbow. Where the rest of me has been ghostly pale since the day I was murdered, this crack is a dark inky black, making it glaringly obvious.

“Librarian.” Somehow, he manages to make that single title convey a hundred different things. Concern. Confusion. Demand. Even…protectiveness?

Surely, that last one is wishful thinking on my part.

No one else seems to have seen. Did they not hear that? Is the Arcanaeum okay?

Flinching back, I struggle to think past the panic that’s consuming me. Is someone attacking the library? The crack. Where is the crack?

Abandoning Dakari and his silent questions, I ghost down to the one place in the Arcanaeum I avoid as much as possible: the Vault.

The spire is still there, as is the altar. And, of course, my crystalline corpse remains frozen in time, hands still chained above my head. Only now, the flawless diamond of my left arm is fractured. Broken. As if someone has taken a chisel to my hand. I want to blame an accident—an earthquake—anything. But the altar is fine, completely undamaged.

What is this?

Is this the end of whatever accident of magic is keeping me alive—in a fashion? Did touching Dakari create this?

What am I saying? Of course it did.

That tingle wasn’t some benign magical quirk. It was a warning.

I stagger on thin air, reaching out to catch myself on the altar, only to fall through it and land on my ass.

I sit there on the floor for far too long, hugging my legs in search of the comfort such an action might’ve brought were I still alive. My eyes keep returning to the crack, waiting to see if it will spread until it forks over the rest of my body. What is it about Dakari—and I must assume the other four as well, since they elicit the same reaction—that could do this? Is it intentional?

No. Dakari looked as confused as I felt.

My immediate reaction is to ban them. All of them. They’re clearly a threat. But I’m also well aware that the ban might not stick.

Lambert is immune to my strikes. It’s reasonable to assume that the others might be as well. The only way to tell will be if North’s card is blemish-free tomorrow.

If he turns up tomorrow.